The Italian Romance, page 14
‘Your husband, Signora. He is away?’ he said.
Of course he would have established that earlier, in the village perhaps.
‘He is a prisoner-of-war, Herr Major. He is being held in England.’ She spoke quietly.
‘My sympathies, Signora,’ he said, also quietly. He walked back to them, glancing at Kurt who raised sleepy eyes over the rim of his wine glass. The major sat on the edge of his chair. ‘This war should have been over months ago, a year, two years ago. And for you here, in this country of antiquity! The British, and the Americans, what game are they playing?’
‘Yes,’ she said. She bit her lip. In her glass, a square of light moved about on the surface of red wine. She tipped it up to her mouth and imagined that she could swallow it. It was a reserva wine. Alphonso had played the game, too.
‘Don’t worry, Signora,’ Kurt said. ‘We’re here to save you.’
The major turned his head and stared at his companion. Kurt shrugged. He raised his glass. ‘Let us drink to the salvation of Rome. As we rush from the North to save it, and they rush from the South, may the best man win.’
While Kurt polished off his second glass, the major rolled his between his hands. He said, ‘Forgive my comrade, Signora. This is his hour for growing maudlin. The loss of the sun is a personal insult to him.’
Kurt laughed a small, unhappy laugh. He struggled out of the warmth of his chair. He flexed his right leg as he stood. ‘Damn knee,’ he said. He looked down at her. ‘Excuse me, Signora, my apologies.’
She nodded.
‘I’ll see to the men, Franz,’ he said.
The major looked into the empty grate. ‘All right,’ he said.
Kurt brought his heels together, bowed slightly to her. He was sober, cool. ‘Till later, Signora,’ he said. ‘Many thanks for the excellent reserva. Most generous of you to share it with us.’
He put his weight on his right leg, kicked out the knee once more and then walked over to the side-table, putting his glass down almost silently. He tapped the headrest of the major’s chair as he passed.
‘Yes,’ the major said in response, and Kurt went out, giving, to Sonia’s surprise, a slight nod of the head to Alphonso.
There was an awkwardness in the room. The major finished his wine.
Sonia stood up. ‘May I pour you another glass?’
‘No.’ He looked at his boots. Sonia looked down at them, too. For all the shine, she could now see that the toes on both were badly scuffed, almost white. He breathed deeply. Sonia, puzzled by the change of mood, did not know whether to relieve him of his empty glass, or to sit back down. Or to leave him to his reflections. Perhaps he wanted her to go?
She said, ‘You must be tired, Major.’ She folded her arms across her stomach.
‘No,’ he said. He looked up at her. His pale eyes were bleared. The wine, maybe. ‘No, not at all. I am eager to...’ He looked around the wing of the chair. Alphonso stared back at him. ‘I have a job to do, Signora. I am eager to have it done. I hope I will not be unpleasant company for you tonight.’
He is shy, she realised. Now that he was on his own, just a man. Something in her softened. She said, ‘For tonight, we’ll forget all about the war, Herr Major. You’ll tell me your thoughts on Dante. It will be like old times for me.’
He smiled, and dropped his head, as Gianni would do. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
She took a step towards him. She didn’t know what she might do, take his glass, stroke his head, pat his shoulder. But she glanced at Alphonso, who looked straight at her and shook his head. She stopped. The smell of the man’s uniform, of rain and sweat and French forests, the illumination of the flash on his shoulder, brought her to her senses.
She stepped back. ‘Perhaps, then, some coffee?’
‘You have coffee?’ He glanced up at her and smiled.
She smiled too. ‘A little,’ she said.
She was interrupted by loud footsteps in the hall. The young leutnant, Kruger, appeared in the doorway. Alphonso stood to attention. Kruger saluted. ‘Heil Hitler,’ he said. Alphonso moved back from him.
The major lifted his hand. ‘What is it, Kruger?’ he said in German.
‘A signal, sir, if I may see you in private.’
‘Very well. I’ll be outside in a moment.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The boy turned and walked heavily to the front door.
The major stood. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. His eyes said something to her. Not the flirtation of earlier. His eyes were like a northern lake in summer. Perhaps he’d lived by such a lake, or spent his boyhood holidays there. Perhaps the days there had spilled in to him, light-filled, laughter-filled. Perhaps he could hear echoes across the expanse of water, even still, when he sat alone in a French forest.
He was eight or nine inches taller than her. She felt the power of his height, the breadth of his shoulders.
Then he walked away from her. She listened to his steps, to the sounds of the front door closing behind him.
She sat down heavily, and covered her face. She could hear Alphonso coming towards her. He ran his hand down her hair. ‘Very good,’ he soothed her. ‘You did very well.’
Through her hands she said, ‘I’m so scared, Alphonso.’
He stroked her hair again. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’
‘He should be here. I don’t know what to do. He didn’t have to go.’
‘No,’ Alphonso said.
She dropped her hands and sat still and small on the edge of the chair. Her breath deepened and regained its rhythm. She watched a chink of gold shiver and jump on the wine bottle. Alphonso stepped away from her. ‘I’ll go and see what they’re doing out there,’ he said. She nodded. She didn’t look at him as he limped out to the hallway.
‘It looks like we’re having guests for dinner, Berta,’ Sonia said as she came into the kitchen.
Berta noticed that her face was pale. ‘So I believe,’ she said. She was sitting at the table, slicing zucchini on a cutting board. ‘Are they intending to provide the ingredients?’
Sonia shrugged. ‘I doubt it. What have we got?’ She walked across to the pantry, opened the door and peered in.
‘Nothing,’ Berta said.
‘Well, we have to give them something. What happened to the ham?’
‘They’re not getting that,’ Berta said. ‘I’ll fry them zucchini. And they can have polenta with it.’
‘That’s not much to give them.’ Sonia had walked into the pantry and stood on her toes to see what Berta had spirited away up on the top shelves.
‘That’s more than a lot of people have.’ Berta began to dip the slices into a bowl of batter.
‘You’ve got some of those tins up here, that Papa sent us.’ She put a foot on the lowest shelf and heaved herself up so that her chin was level with the top shelf. She loosed one hand from its grip and reached out for the nearest tin. There were five or six, of different shapes, round, flat.
‘You leave them there. Think of your son.’ Berta plopped a zucchini flower in the bowl. The mixture splattered her. ‘Now look what you made me do.’
‘I am thinking of him. That’s exactly who I’m thinking of,’ Sonia said. She stepped down awkwardly with a tin of peaches in her hand. ‘Can we do something with this? They like sweet things, Germans.’
‘How do you know what they like?’ Berta finished with her task, wiped her fat hands on the lap of her apron.
The women were silenced by the footsteps in the hallway. Someone was coming down to the kitchen. There was a knock on the door, which was not quite closed. They looked at each other, both aware that they might have been overhead. Berta closed her eyes, annoyed with her loose tongue.
Sonia’s hand settled on her breast. ‘Yes?’ she said.
The door was pushed open by Kurt. The sight of him relieved her.
‘Just to tell you that our plans have changed, I’m afraid,’ he said. He smiled at Berta. He rested his hand against the door, and leaned into it. Sonia could see that he was quite a slim man, slim-hipped. ‘We have to push on.’
‘Now?’ Sonia said.
‘Now, yes.’
She looked at him. He ran his open palm slowly down the edge of the door. She said, ‘You must be in a hurry.’
‘We must be,’ he said. ‘C’est la guerre. We meet, we part.’ He straightened up. ‘But we don’t forget.’
Sonia laughed, though she was aware of Berta’s stubborn refusal. The older woman sat stolidly on her chair. Sonia said, ‘Are we so memorable?’
‘Oh, yes, a vignette that I will carry to my death. You don’t believe me?’ he said. He gazed directly into her eyes. She smiled. She knew this man. She had stayed away from men like this. He had gazed into other women’s eyes, too. And perhaps every time he believed, her and himself. Unless she misjudged him, unless he was an innocent. He said, ‘I’ll remember this place, this yellow-stoned villa, this landscape beyond credibility. And you, seated in your drawing room, dark, suspicious eyes, wine that tastes of cypress and lavender and hot, baked earth. Conversation. And in my old age, I will take it out of my pocket, unwrap it from my linen handkerchief and look again, this angle, that.’
She laughed outright, and he laughed, too. She said, ‘A vignette?’
‘We are all vignettes. You to me, I to you. What else are we in this world?’
And then the laughter died, their eyes which had met for a few moments dropped away from each other.
‘Ah, well,’ he said. He drew himself up and bowed his head towards Berta as he clicked his heels. ‘Signora,’ he said to her. ‘I am desolate that I cannot partake of the delights of your table.’
Berta looked up at him for the first time. Sonia almost laughed at the amazement on her lined face. ‘Oh, well,’ Berta said. ‘Next time, maybe.’
‘Till next time.’ His eyes smiled, aware of that subtle victory.
Sonia realised that the tin of peaches was still in her hand. She felt it pressing at her thigh. She woke, suddenly, put it down on the table. ‘So, are you ready to go now?’
‘Ready,’ he said.
As she walked towards him, he stood back and she passed through the doorway. The hall was darkening as the sun set. It was quiet. He said, ‘Take care of yourself.’ Their elbows touched briefly as they wandered up the passage. She could hear the ticking of the clock in the dining room. ‘And you,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
They came out on to the stone portico. The sky was huge in the west, lilac streaks stretched out across interminable miles and behind them the sun shed blood red. It was falling fast yet it was of too much magnitude, too much unearthly royalty, for time to mean a great deal. Those moments were of a different order. Sonia felt something deep in her heart shift and change, as she watched the western sky. The man walked down the few steps but she barely saw him. He moved like a shadow to the staff car, which waited for him, purring. The major saluted her as Kurt climbed in the seat behind him. She stepped back into the doorway. The engines of armoured cars and outriders, and of the five canvas-covered trucks, revved up. She put her hands over her ears as the convoy crawled out of her yard and from behind the house, one after another. She stood there till she saw their heads appear over the hedges along the roadway, and the flapping canvas. She closed the door as the din died down.
The drawing room door was half-closed. She thought it was open when she and the German had walked by a few minutes before. She pushed at it.
Alphonso was standing by the desk. His back was to her. She saw him replacing the telephone in its cradle. ‘Who was that?’ she asked.
He was startled. He turned quickly. Sonia jumped a little, too. ‘No one,’ he said. ‘Wrong number.’
‘Oh.’ Her forehead creased. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ he said.
The Germans were here. They have just left. Il Duce has done this to us. No word of Jacob. My father is still in Milan, trying to find him. What will tomorrow bring? I no longer know. I fear it is too late to try for England. If only you were here. The Germans didn’t realise that I am a Jew – our name did that for me. They were courteous. They drank a bottle of Papa’s reserva and then they left. I suppose you will say, what am I worried about then? We are small and fragile as sparrows in this world. That is what I am worried about. Please, please write. Give me some hope.
She sealed the envelope. As she dipped her pen into the inkwell, she heard a dog yelping; he seemed to be coming closer. She wrote her husband’s name and address in careful, sweeping script. She pressed the blotter over the wet, luminous marks.
When she came down into the kitchen, tired, Gianni had returned. He was playing with the dog, snapping his fingers, tempting it into misdemeanours; the dog jumped up on him, clawed at his shirt. Berta shouted at them both. Sonia was a little scared of it, its pure tan face and strange, tan eyes.
She said, her voice raised, ‘Gianni! Put him out, now!’
The boy looked up at her slowly as her voice penetrated his excitement. He smiled, pleased to see her. She seemed to calm him. ‘Come, boy,’ he said and he backed out the door. ‘Come, come,’ he said enticingly. Alphonso stepped out of his way.
‘What kept you?’ she said to the old man.
He limped to the table, pulled out a chair and sat. ‘Ah,’ he said. He scratched the back of his head. ‘There was trouble.’
‘The Germans?’
He nodded. Berta put a stack of four bowls down on the table and said, ‘What happened?’
‘There was an accident. One of the staff cars left the road.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Gianni said as he came back inside. His face was flushed. His pale cotton shirt was stained with dirt, the slide of the dog’s paws. His eyes were bright. ‘It wasn’t an accident. It was the partisans. They shot at the wheel.’
Sonia suddenly shouted at him. ‘Gianni, enough! Don’t say such stupid things.’
He looked at her, hurt. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘I saw it. I know who it was.’
Sonia turned a furious face to Alphonso who, seeing her anger, stared down at his big hands. He pulled the bowls towards him.
‘You did not see it,’ Sonia said to the boy.
‘I did! He shot at the wheel, and it went ... bang, like that. And then the camionetta went...’ and the boy bent over sideways, his left hand over his head, ‘and the front wheel was going sssh like this.’ He straightened up and wound his finger round and round. ‘It couldn’t stop.’
Sonia’s voice was shaking. ‘How?’ she demanded of Alphonso.
He shook his head. ‘The young Aretino boy and this one wandered off from their house. They’d been told to stay inside, but ... They were on the other side of the road when it happened.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Well back, in the trees. They weren’t seen. They can’t have been.’
‘And I know who it was, but I’ll never tell anyone,’ Gianni said. ‘We promised each other.’
It was a day for realisation, Sonia thought. The truth was so clear to her now that she felt a fool. Even Berta must have known. Sonia said, her voice ice, ‘The telephone.’
Alphonso stared at her. There were shadows under his eyes.
‘And Francesco’s guns. You haven’t put them away for safekeeping.’ He simply continued to look at her.
‘Am I such a fool?’ she said.
Berta turned away. She walked back to the stove where a pan of beans and zucchini was bubbling in oil.
Gianni said, appealing to her, ‘I won’t ever say anything, Mama. They didn’t catch him. He took one shot and ran through the trees. His brother was there, too. They got away.’
She stared at her son. And then she closed her eyes. She held her hands together. ‘What happened to the Germans?’ she said.
‘One of them was dead,’ Gianni said. ‘The others climbed out and they carried his body to the middle of the road. He was dead. His friend was there. He was holding his hand.’
Sonia looked sideways at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘His friend took hold of his hand and he was saying Kurt, Kurt, like that.’
She held her hands to her mouth. Then she opened her arms, stepped towards the boy. She kissed the side of his head, and felt the warmth of his skin through the shirt. She stroked his back. The boy patted her as if she were a child in distress.
I woke very early. I climbed out of bed and pulled back the curtains.
I didn’t make coffee. I thought it might disturb Francesca if she were to hear me trying to tiptoe up and down the stairs. She might think she’d have to get up and do it for me. I’ve been working for a couple of hours in bed, with the morning sun streaming in on my back. No better remedy. The sun is already strong, pouring down light, as palpable as rain. It feels today as if the whole earth is warm and opening itself. I am happy this morning. Joyful, even.
And just as I put down the pen, drop the pad to the floor and stretch my old bones like a cat, I hear a car. It’s for us. Glory, what a time for a visit. It’s seven-thirty. I climb out from the sheets again and peek through the window. My nightgown is of light cotton, not the most modest though it does touch my ankles. I make sure I am not seen. The car is slow, crunching stones as it follows the path. I hear it but I don’t see it yet.
Here it is, the nose. A rather nice black something. Don’t recognise it at all. Pulling in right under my window. I step to the side so that the curtain covers me. Since I am in a giddy mood, I drape it across my face, Indian-like. Probably have concussion, I suppose.
Ah, it’s him. My bushman. He’s an eager beaver. He’s opened the driver’s door and stands out. His back must be aching. Got his hands on his waist at the kidneys, arching so that his head falls back. I know the feeling.
What time did he leave Rome? Trying to beat the traffic, I guess. Or just couldn’t wait. Quite a positive sign. Let’s hope he gets a reasonable welcome.
What should I do? Should I go down to let him in? Or better if he bangs on the door and wakes her up? This is what you call a dilemma. She might wake like a scalded cat. Her father was that type. Perfectly reasonable the rest of the whole day. Blood sugar. That’s what I put it down to.
